


The Outsiders

by searchingwardrobes



Series: needtobreathe [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 03x02, Angst, Deleted Scenes, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Neverland, Orphans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-16 14:55:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12344937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/searchingwardrobes/pseuds/searchingwardrobes
Summary: Right after Pan has left Emma with the mysterious map, Hook appears. It turns out Emma wasn't the only one who could hear the cries of The Lost Boys.Yeah, I know, there's been a hundred fics like this, but when I heard the needtobreathe song The Outsiders on the radio, this story came to me. Then "Love Song" by The Cure came on immediately after. I took it as a sign. This is the next story in my series with only two self-imposed rules: every one shot must be a deleted scene, and each must be based on a needtobreathe song.





	The Outsiders

_Shortfalls and little sins Close calls where no one wins Stand tall but running thin I'm wearing thin Oh, why are we keeping score_

_Cause if you're not laughing Who is laughing now I've been wondering if this starts sinking Would we stand our ground After everything we've learned We've finally come to terms We are the outsiders_

Emma stood looking at the blank parchment in her hands long after Pan had left. The longer she stared at it, the louder the cries of the Lost Boys ringing in her ears. She grumbled in frustration and crammed the damn thing in her pocket.

              “It isn’t wise to wander alone on this island, love.”

              Emma startled at first, spinning around with sword raised, but the sight of Hook had her rolling her eyes. She was so _not_ in the mood for his flirting right now.

              “Yeah, I guess, but lying there staring at the sky was getting pretty pointless,” she muttered in response as she re-sheathed her sword. She then narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

              He pushed away from the tree he was leaning against and sauntered towards her. It suddenly occurred to her that when the cries of the children awakened her, he had been nowhere in the camp. She wanted to trust him, had wanted to since the beanstalk, but if life had taught her anything, it was never let your guard down. Was he up to something?

              “I didn’t spend centuries on this island without learning never to let your guard down where Pan is concerned. You can never tell what type of mischief he’s concocting. I thought it best someone keep watch.”

              He sounded sincere, and her internal lie detector wasn’t going off, but still . . . She narrowed her eyes. “Why didn’t you say something? We could have set up a rotation. Don’t _you_ need rest?”

              Hook shrugged as he flung the end of his duster aside and eased down to sit on the jungle floor. “I never have slept well here,” he told her. He gave her a saucy wink and that scandalous grin of his as he settled himself back against a tree, then he patted the ground next to him. “Care to join me Swan?”

              Emma couldn’t help the half smile that quirked her own lips. “Should I? For all I know, you have ulterior motives for getting me down there.”

              “Why Swan?” Hook asked as he wriggled his eyebrows. “Am I that hard for you to resist?”

              That did it. No way would she let him know – er, make him _think_ \- that he had an effect on her. So she scoffed at his antics and plopped down beside him. She sighed as she leaned against the tree trunk behind them, which was huge. Even though it was rough and hard, she felt sleep beckoning. Until the cries once again rent the air. Pan’s words floated back to her: _I wonder why **they** can’t hear it?_

“Thirsty?”

              Emma turned to see Hook offering her a coconut. She laughed lightly. “What, did you run out of rum?”

              He laughed in return. “Never, love. But in all seriousness, the coconut milk could help you sleep.”

              Emma took the offered coconut, figuring it was worth a shot. Though as long as those cries tortured her, she doubted anything would help. She turned to give the coconut back and saw Hook massaging his temple. The strange moonlight of Neverland reflected in his blue eyes, and they seemed surprisingly . . . melancholic. Emma bit her lip as understanding dawned.

              “You can hear them too,” she told him, barely speaking above a whisper.

              He gave her a sad smile. “Aye. On the beanstalk, when I said that I saw the look of a lost boy in your eyes . . . “ he chuckled sardonically, “well, let’s just say I wasn’t being completely truthful.”

              “It was a look you had seen in your own eyes.” Emma wasn’t sure why she was prodding him. If the situation were reversed, she would have shut him down. Fast. But for some reason, she wanted to know – had to know – if this was the reason she had always felt so strongly that they understood one another.

              Hook shrugged, “Well, in my brother’s, but surely it was reflected in my own. Not many looking glasses available at sea. Not for a slave boy, anyway.”

              “A slave?” Emma wanted to take the shocked tone of her voice and pull it back the minute the word left her tongue.

Yet Hook didn’t even flinch when he answered with a simple, “aye.”

Emma wondered how exactly such a thing had happened. How old was he? Had his parents died? Was he abandoned? As if he had read her thoughts, Hook continued after a long pause, “I was eight. My father was a fugitive. He sold us for a rowboat so he could run away.”

He stated it all so matter-of-factly, not that it surprised Emma. She herself could rattle off her own stats as if reading them from her file at children’s services. _Infant girl. Abandoned on the side of the road. Only a blanket with her name._

They sat there sharing the coconut milk in silence, neither commenting on the word in different forms they both could hear wept over and over: _Mommy! Mom! Mother! Mama!_ They were silent so long, that when Hook spoke again, it would have startled Emma if his tone hadn’t been so gentle.

“It’s not their fault, you know. Your parents. That they don’t understand. Only those who’ve lived it ever could.”

Emma was surprised at the softness in his gaze when she turned her head. His eyes roamed her face, but not in a heated way. She remembered what he had said on the beanstalk: _You’re somewhat of an open book, love_. She felt as if he were reading her right now. She quickly averted her gaze, concentrating instead on the coconut in her hand.

“And it’s okay,” he continued softly, “to be angry.”

She lifted her head suddenly at that, indignant. “I’m not angry! They did what they thought was best. I get that.”

He tilted his head as he regarded her, his eyes clearly saying that he didn’t buy it. “Your head says that. But your heart?” He shook his head slowly, looking off into the distance. His next words sounded more for himself than for her. “The heart doesn’t listen to logic.”

“Well, I’d say your father deserved your anger,” Emma told him, mainly to get the focus off herself.

Hook’s jaw clenched and he dropped his chin. Staring at the ground, he muttered, “My father is . . . a complex subject. No. The _guilty_ anger I felt was towards my mother. Then my brother. But it wasn’t as if they . . . “ he swallowed hard before continuing, “asked to die.” He scowled and reached into the inner pocket of his coat. “On second thought . . . rum sounds good.”

She watched him swallow, watched the anger flit across his face. She grabbed the flask from him and took a swig of her own. She knew when a topic was closed. She wiped her mouth and handed back the flask. She could swear the wails of the children had gotten louder as they talked.

“How did you do it?” she muttered in frustration, gesturing towards the thick jungle and the tortured sounds they contained. “For hundreds of years?”

Hook leaned towards her with a conspiratorial look. His eyes glittered with almost merriment, but a flush tinged his cheeks. “Well, lass, don’t let this get out, but . . . I would sing.”

Emma’s eyebrows rose as high as they could on her brow. She couldn’t help the incredulousness in her voice. “Sing?”

“Aye, drowns out the noise, but also soothes the boys’ pains.” He surprised her by leaning forward, removing his duster, and rolling it carefully into a ball. He set it on the ground and patted it. “Your boy needs you, Swan, you must sleep. Lie here, and I’ll sing.”

He paused and reached his hand up to scratch behind his ears, which were also now pink. Was he embarrassed? She hadn’t thought it was possible, but he looked positively bashful. “Just, uh . . . lie facing that way,” he gestured towards the woods away from him.

“Why?” Emma asked, a smile filling up her face.

His returning smile was one she had never seen before, free of flirtation and cocky bravado. She wondered if it were his real smile. If it was, she had to admit, she liked it on him. He cleared his throat awkwardly before answering. “I can’t sing if you’re looking at me.”

She did as he asked, bunching the leather beneath her head. She was glad she was turned away from him as well. She didn’t want him to see the smile that refused to leave her face, no matter how she tried to command it to go away. Then he started to sing, and her heart swelled in her chest at the sound. He had a wonderful voice: beautiful and smooth, yet completely masculine in its tone.

_Twas Friday morn when we set sail And we were not far from the land When the captain, he spied a lovely mermaid With a comb and a glass in her hand_

_O the ocean's waves will roll And the stormy winds will blow While we poor sailors go skipping to the top And the landlubbers lie down below (below, below) And the landlubbers lie down below_

          It was exactly the type of song Emma would have imagined a pirate in a fairy tale land would sing. The lyrics were rather dark and violent, not at all a soothing lullaby, yet Hook had been right. The sound of his voice, first in competition with the crying, slowly drowned it out. Then the crying seemed to lessen. Emma wasn’t sure if Hook’s singing calmed the Lost Boys enough to end their cries. She fell asleep long before that.

              And just as sleep claimed her, it suddenly occurred to her that it was the only time in her life anyone had sung her to sleep.

_On the outside, you're free to roam On the outside, we've found a home On the outside, there's more to see On the outside, we choose to be_

**Author's Note:**

> I googled "Irish sea shanties" for a song for Killian to sing Emma to sleep. The one I found that appears in the story above was simply titled "The Mermaid." It was on a web site run by an actor in a Renaissance festival, so who knows how accurate it is . . . I looked at other ones, and all of them were depressing and morbid. This one was the only one that I looked at that had a fantasy element, which is why I chose it.


End file.
